


Two Hearts Are Better than One

by ryeloza



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 07:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20205772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryeloza/pseuds/ryeloza
Summary: “You’re totally over the moon for someone!  This is wonderful!”“It is?”“Of course!  How long have you been seeing her?”“I’m not—It’s not like that Chris.  We’re just friends.”“Just friends, hmm?”  Chris nods sagely, not remotely aware of the minefield into which he’s tread.  It would almost be funny if it weren’t so completely depressing.  “We can fix that.”Oh god.  “We?”Chris decides to interfere in Ben's love life by helping him get together with Leslie...not that he realizes that. Set during season 3 after "Jerry's Painting." This was written to fill the trope "playing Cyrano."





	1. Chapter 1

Sitting in a bar on a Friday night, nursing his third beer in a little over an hour, Ben Wyatt is certain of three things:

He still doesn’t know how Chris talked him into going out tonight.

He absolutely shouldn’t have agreed to this.

And Leslie is somehow both keeping him sane and making him crazy at the same time.

That last one might not be so much a point of interest at this present moment as it is a fact about his everyday life.

Chris is in the bathroom (for the fifth time since they got here), giving Ben the chance to surreptitiously check his text messages (for the eighth or ninth time since they got here). He’s turning into one of those people unable to put his phone away for the evening, a fact which would bother him more if he wasn’t completely infatuated with the person he’s been texting all evening. 

(Not to mention it’s a lot more fun to text to Leslie than it is to spend the night silently pretending he doesn’t resent Chris.)

_ I saw your picture on Chris’ facebook update. You look miserable.  _ :(

Okay. So he has the silent part down. Apparently he has to work on the pretending.

_ Too bad you can’t be at girl’s night out instead. Ann and I are having a great time!!! _

_ See? _

The picture message that follows looks as forcibly taken as the one Chris took of them a few minutes ago (and apparently posted on Facebook—good lord). Leslie has her arm wrapped tightly around Ann’s neck, seemingly dragging her into frame, and while she’s grinning hugely, Ann looks bewildered. And still, he can’t deny that it looks like they’re having more fun. Not that it’s surprising. Presumably Ann has no issues with who Leslie does or doesn’t date. Presumably Ann only cares that she’s happy. And following that logic, presumably Leslie isn’t harboring any secret bitterness that her friend is cheating her out of something wonderful.

Ben shakes his head, eyes flitting over the picture of Leslie’s slightly flushed face before he starts to type a reply. There’s a reason he’s been avoiding Chris outside of work for the past couple of months, and it has everything to do with thoughts like that. Unfair as it may be, Chris has become the unintended target of every bit of Ben’s negative frustration about not being with Leslie, and decreasing their time together seems like the best way to avoid an unwarranted confrontation.

(Except now he’s here, harangued into a night out with Chris, who insists they haven’t hung out enough lately. 

And as a certain photograph can prove, it’s going about as well as can be expected.)

Ben hesitates for a moment and then deletes his reply. “I wish I was there too” is too maudlin, even for him.

** _ Looks like fun!  _ **

Leslie, who obviously isn’t weighing her every response like he is, replies immediately. 

_ What’s wrong anyway? Is Chris making you eat salad? _

_ Or did he make you sign up for a triathlon? _

_ Did he force you to dance?  _

** _ How do you force someone to dance? _ **

_ I’ve only seen you dance once, and it looked pretty forced to me.  _ :)

“Ben Wyatt!”

Ben lifts his head, so startled he nearly throws his phone across the bar in an innate attempt to hide the evidence from Chris.

(Not that there is evidence of anything. Like the fact that he’s been texting Leslie all night. Or flirting with her. Or fighting the blatant desire to kiss her for weeks now.)

In his panic, Ben takes a moment to register the look on Chris’ face. The Cheshire cat grin and amused eyes—neither unusual for Chris, but definitely out of the norm when directed at Ben. It makes him feel as though Leslie’s text messages are tattooed across his forehead for everyone to see, and without thinking, he rubs his hand across his face. “Hey Chris,” he says, trying for casual and falling somewhere near anxious mess. “What’s up?”

“You tell me.”

“Uh…”

They stare at each other, caught in an absurd standoff that leaves Ben wondering whether he needs a gun or a white flag. Chris is still smiling like he’s discovered a secret, and considering the only secret Ben has is one that would make Chris decidedly less happy, he’s not sure what to make of it.

“You didn’t think you could hide it from me, did you? I can see it all over your face.”

“You can?”

Chris nods fervently. “Ben Wyatt, you’ve got a crush on someone.”

It’s a ridiculous feeling: the absurd urge to laugh at the innocuous middle school wording combined with the surge of anxiety that makes him want to instantly deny the accusation. The result is a stilted half-laugh, half-cough as he says, “What?”

Chris giggles—actually giggles—delightedly. “I’ve seen that look on your face before,” he crows. (He has a _look?_ And if that’s true, how is Chris only seeing it _now_? Maybe he’s better at pretending than he thought.) “You’re totally over the moon for someone! This is wonderful!”

“It is?”

“Of course! How long have you been seeing her?”

“I’m not—It’s not like that Chris. We’re just friends.”

“Just friends, hmm?” Chris nods sagely, not remotely aware of the minefield into which he’s tread. It would almost be funny if it weren’t so completely depressing. “We can fix that.”

_ Oh god.  _ “We?”

“Absolutely! Ben, you must let me help you.”

“Must I?”

The sarcasm is lost on Chris, who merely throws an arm around Ben’s shoulders and leans in like they’re sharing a secret. “You know this really isn’t necessary.”

“Ben.” Chris turns to face him again, putting both of his hands on Ben’s shoulders and squeezing just past the point of comfort. “Your happiness is absolutely a necessity. And if you’ve found someone worthy of your affection, we must do everything in our power to successfully woo her.”

It’s the type of intrusive, well-intentioned gesture that could only be acceptable in Chris’ mind, and still be so far from anything he could actually do to help. Which pretty much sums up every time Chris has ever interfered in his love life.

Besides, Ben is pretty sure Leslie is already wooed. He wouldn’t bet his life on it or anything, but he’s fairly confident the reason they’re not together has nothing to do with how she feels about him. Not that he can mention this to Chris. “I think I’m doing okay on my own.”

“Nonsense. Two hearts are always better than one.”

Two _hearts_? 

“Now first you have to tell me all about her.”

“Oh. Um...”

“Don’t worry, Ben. Together we’ll transform your commonplace observations into true poetry. Now let’s start with something easy: What is her most beautiful feature?”

Ben frowns. Commonplace observations? What does that even mean? And more importantly, why does he suddenly feel self-conscious about it? 

He has an abrupt vision of himself as a bumbling fool alongside Chris’ eloquent knight, perhaps not so much an accurate picture as it is relevant. After all, it’s not like anything has progressed in the past few months other than his absolute frustration. What if Chris has a point? What if one romantic gesture could change the trajectory of their relationship? 

Chris Traeger may be more of a failure at relationships than Ben is, but he has initiating them down to a science. 

“Come on, buddy,” Chris insists. “What do you have to lose?”

_ My job. Her job. Any credibility I have possibly gained in the past decade. _ _The wild hope I’ve been holding onto that somehow she’ll say yes despite all the risks. _

_ Or _ , Chris’ voice pops into his mind with its usual obnoxious enthusiasm, _the only thing you’ll lose is this frightful frustration that’s been bogging you down for the past few months. _

Chris sounds surprisingly rational in Ben’s mind. Almost as rational as he’s starting to sound in reality. Ben wonders if that’s a sign that he’s losing it. “What exactly do you have in mind?” he ventures.

Chris’ eyes brighten, and it’s only then that Ben realizes he had braced himself for rejection. “Do you know how many great love stories are based on one heartfelt message?” asks Chris, selling the triteness of his own words as only he can. “With me guiding you, your text messages will be the gateway to the greatest love story anyone has ever told.”

“Right.”

“Trust me, Ben. By the end of the night, she’ll know exactly how you feel. Now, what did you first notice about her? Her eyes? Her smile? Her hair?”

“The tiny furrow in her brow when she yells.”

Chris blinks, obviously not sure whether to take Ben at face value, and Ben chooses to save him the bother of figuring it out. “Her eyes, I guess,” he amends, and he realizes he’s not even sure if it’s true. The first thing he remembers noticing about Leslie is her passion, and physically that’s a culmination of all of her, an intensity that is as visible in her eyes as it is in the way she moves her hands. Even in the beginning, when that energy was directed at yelling at him, there was something attractive about it, an admiration that someone could care about anything that much, let alone feel everything so hugely.

“Excellent,” says Chris, drawing Ben back from what he’s privately begun to think of as his Leslie-spiral. He shakes his head, disoriented, and takes another swig of his beer. “What color are they?”

“Huh? Oh. Blue—uh—Green.” He frowns. He can’t afford to be too on-the-nose here; even Chris isn’t that obtuse. “They’re, um, kind of blue-green.” 

“They sound lovely.”

“That’s what you want me to say? You have lovely eyes?” Actually, that doesn’t sound half-bad.

“No, no, no, no. Say, ‘Every time I see you, I drown in the depth of your eyes.”

“Drown? Really?”

“Absolutely.”

Reluctantly, Ben lifts his phone and unlocks the screen, illuminating the texts he and Leslie sent earlier. It doesn’t take him long to type the message, but it looks even more absurd in writing than it sounded coming out of Chris’ mouth. “Are you sure about this?”

“I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life.”

As if that means much coming from Chris. Seeming to sense his hesitation, Chris moves to look at the phone—or possibly hit send himself—and Ben panics, deleting the message and dropping the phone back to his side before Chris can see. Chris looks crestfallen. “Are you so afraid of expressing your feelings, Ben? You’ll never find love if you can’t open up to someone else.”

Ben sighs. This was a terrible idea. Setting aside that Chris’ words sound too cliché for even a greeting card, the entire premise is cloaked in too many lies. Maybe this would be easier if every key detail of his love life wasn’t taboo. Then he could just tell Chris that the woman in question in Leslie and maybe find a real way to tell her how he feels. Preferably without invoking images of drowning. 

“It’s just...Well it’s a little…” The word cheesy rests on the tip of his tongue, but saying that to Chris would be more hurtful than productive, and this is already awkward enough. “I think it’s a bit abrupt,” he compromises. “For a text message.”

“Oh.” Chris sits back on his seat, head cocked thoughtfully. “I suppose I could see that.”

_ Thank god. _ “Yeah. But, you know, it’s fine. Really. I’ll just work out something on my own and—“

“Oh no, no, no. We’re not giving up. Not when you’re finally making progress.”

“Progress?”

“Of course. Look at how far you’ve come in the past year. New job. New friends. New home. And now you’ve finally found someone. Honestly, Ben, this is the happiest I’ve ever seen you.”

“Honestly?” His finger traces the neck of his beer bottle, smearing the condensation in a crooked line. When he looks back at Chris, it’s without the omnipresent annoyance he’s felt all evening. “This is the happiest I’ve been in longer than I can remember.”

Chris tears up at the words. With a firm slap on the back, he leans in again, more emotional than before. “See? So we’re not giving up. We’ll find a way to make this work. Oh!” He sits up, grinning, and Ben winces in anticipation. If the word serenade comes out of Chris’ mouth, he’ll find an excuse to leave. “I got it. Love letter.”

Ben laughs before he can stop himself, a chuckle that fades away as he notices the somewhat frightening determination in his friend’s eyes. “Wait. You’re serious?”

“We’ll write her an email,” Chris explains. “Expressing everything you haven’t been able to in person. It’s perfect!”

Maybe it's the influence of three beers, but Ben can see the merit of this in the periphery, outweighing any awkwardness or guilt about lying. The easy out it will give him when Chris asks if he got a response; a simplistic way to remove any of the on-the-spot lying he’s so terrible at. He can pretend to send the email, tell Chris that she let him down easy and that will be the end. No follow-up questions, no awkward invitations to double dates that Ben will constantly have to find excuses to get out of. Not to mention it gives him the perfect excuse to back out of any future setups from Chris. At least in the foreseeable future.

And he can work out his own way to tell Leslie how he feels without ever invoking the image of drowning in her eyes.

It’s perfect.

“Okay,” he agrees. “Yeah. Let’s write an email.”

“Wonderful!”   


*****

  
  
Everything hurts.  


Ben can’t pinpoint the pain. His head is thick and foggy, dully throbbing as a reminder that he drank too much the night before; his back is wrenched, a sharp pain that seems to extend out to the rest of his body; even his arm, fallen asleep after being twisted awkwardly for too long, wants him to acknowledge the ache. But the most he can manage to do is open his eyes, squinting blearily at his unfamiliar surroundings.

This is not his home. He spent the night on someone else’s couch.

It’s the most he can register before he has to shut his eyes again.

“Good morning.”

_ Correction _ , he thinks. _This is Leslie’s home. I spent the night on Leslie’s couch._

Fuck.

His mind sluggishly trails back over the evening, not really wanting to make the effort of thinking, and manages to come up with a few scattered bits and pieces. Chris. A bar. At some point he dimly remembers Ann.

Something about texting Leslie?

“I have water and aspirin,” she says. He hears shuffling, papers being moved, and he forces himself to open his eyes again. Leslie has set the water on her coffee table, bottle of aspirin alongside it, but at this point the effort is still too much. He tries to meet her eyes, but can’t move his head; he has to settle for staring at her knees.

As knees go, hers seem particularly nice. 

“We should probably talk about what happened last night. Maybe once you’re feeling a little better?”

Ben groans, which apparently Leslie takes as assent rather than a sign that he’s dying. She pats him lightly on the shoulder and then walks away, offering him no further inkling as to what she’s referring.

Okay. So they need to talk. That only sounds somewhat foreboding.

Oh god.

What the hell happened last night? 


	2. Chapter 2

It turns out that there are pros and cons to sitting up.  
  
Pro: That spot on his back that was beginning to burn in pain is reduced to a manageable ache.  
  
Pro: Once he’s upright, he manages to take the aspirin and down the whole glass of water.  
  
Con: Now he knows that he is way too old to crash on someone’s couch for the night.  
  
Con: His head is probably going to explode.  
  
Con: He still mostly feels like death.  
  
Con: His head is definitely going to explode.  
  
Okay, so maybe the cons are winning.  
  
By the time the water is gone, Ben is slouched back on the couch, eyes shut again, but his brain is at least partly cooperating with his desire to think. His memories are sluggishly coming back, drifting through his mind in half-formed images and wisps of ideas. He and Chris were at a bar—that much he remembers clearly—and at some point, he knows they met up with Leslie and Ann. And Tom. Tom was there.  
  
Tom was there feeding him drinks that clearly must have contained poison, and judging by how much of his memory seems to be gone, also possibly contained roofies.  
  
And some mysterious thing happened with Leslie that they need to talk about.  
  
God, he hopes he didn’t kiss her. If he kissed her and can’t remember, he’s going to kill Tom. And then himself. Twice, probably, if Chris happened to witness it. Although surely Leslie would be more panicked if Chris had seen them kissing.   
  
None of that is a decent place to start.   
  
What else? He’d been at a bar, and he’d been talking to Leslie. Texting Leslie. He distinctly remembers sitting there, waiting for Chris, and sending some carefully-planned-to-sound-casual text to her. And that, if nothing else, is something concrete. With effort, he extracts his phone from his pocket, blearily opening his eyes and unlocking the screen to bring up his last conversation with her. The last message he sent still sits unanswered.  
  
**_Are you still here?_**  
  
Well that’s useless. Slowly, he begins to scroll back through their conversation, bits and pieces of the early part of the night coming back to him. Surprisingly, none of it seems to have been typed when he was more than buzzed.  
  
_I saw your picture on Chris’ facebook update._  
  
Chris was posting on Facebook?   
  
It’s with a sense of dread that Ben brings up Facebook on his phone, finding Chris’ page and wincing at the discovery of a series of photos he’s labeled “Guys’ Night Out!” He could have—and probably would have if it wasn’t for the text—happily gone his entire life without knowing this existed. Now he’s stuck perusing poorly taken photos himself to try to piece together the previous evening.  
  
(Poorly taken photos that already have forty-two likes. Good lord. How many friends does Chris have on Facebook?)   
  
It turns out that Chris takes the kind of photos that Ben suspects most people snap when they’re intoxicated. They’d obviously ended up at the Snakehole, where apparently Chris had befriended as many people as possible in the bar, if the eighteen photos, each tagged, “My new best friend!” are any indication. By the time he realizes he should have started at the beginning of the album, he’s already through twenty-three pictures, and it takes another six until he finds one of himself. He’s not even looking at the camera, eyes focused on a laptop set on the table, but it’s the tag that makes him nauseous.  
  
“Ben takes a chance on the power of love!”  
  
They’re possibly the worst trigger words to incite a memory that Ben has ever heard.   
  
Chris had decided to play matchmaker. And he’d pretended to go along with it for reasons he now strongly suspects had to do with the number of beers he’d ingested. But he hadn’t sent it. He was positive he hadn’t sent that email.  
  
Right?  
  
Quickly, Ben opens his email and clicks on his sent folder, sighing in relief when he sees he didn’t send anything to Leslie last night. But the email Chris wrote is still saved as a draft, basically a ticking time bomb waiting to be accidentally sent. He clicks on it, more than ready to delete it and pretend none of this ever happened, when his eyes catch the first line Chris typed.  
  
And just like that, all the hazy memories come flooding back.

  
*****

  
“You know, tomato juice is the real liquid courage.”  
  
Ben pulls the beer bottle away from his lips with a small smack, blinking across the table at Chris. His friend has an eyebrow tilted up, as if he thinks Ben is going to put down the beer and immediately follow his advice.   
  
He wonders if Chris is actually surprised when he doesn’t.  
  
“I think I’m good.”  
  
“I’m just saying, you have nothing to fear. Trust me.”  
  
Of course, Chris is mistaking fear for the equally fun combination of guilt and nerves Ben is actually feeling, not that all three can’t be cured by the pleasant buzz he’ll have by the end of this beer. In fact, considering he doesn’t protest when Chris snags the laptop the moment he signs into his email, insistent on completing the “translation” firsthand, maybe he’s already mostly there.   
  
“Alright!” Chris claps his hands and then rubs them together, looking very much like some sort of evil genius. Then his fingers move to the keyboard. “Dear…”  
  
Ben sips his beer. Chris continues to stare, par for the course when he’s typing. The silence is just stretching into awkward territory when Ben realizes what’s going on.  
  
“Oh right. Her name.”  
  
“It would help.”  
  
“Yeah, of course.” He laughs shakily, mind whirring and unable to come up with a single name. “It’s, uh…” _Pick_something. “…Belinda.” _What?_ “Her name is, um, Belinda.”  
  
“How unusually lovely.”  
  
“Isn’t it?”  
  
Chris smiles, fingers clacking over the keyboard and then pausing again. “So I’m dying to know, where did you meet?”  
  
“In the parks—Park. In the park.” He takes a deep breath. _No big deal. It isn’t a slip up. The best lies have some truth in them anyway, right? Right._ “We met in the park.”  
  
“That is literally one of my top twenty-five favorite places to meet someone. Fellow runners, usually.”  
  
“Belinda isn’t a runner.”  
  
“Everyone can be a runner. It would be more correct to say she’s not a runner yet.”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“It’s funny how you never know where you’re going to meet someone, isn’t it? I mean, just a few weeks ago, you were convinced you’d never meet anyone outside of work, and now look at you.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I must admit, I’m surprised you haven’t asked her out yet already.”  
  
Ben runs his fingernail along the edge of the label on his bottle, gently scraping at a corner. This is turning into a tightrope walk, and his only advantage is Chris’ utter lack of a suspicion. “Well, you know…the timing.”  
  
“Oh. She just got out of a relationship?”  
  
“Exactly,” he says, abandoning his picking to take another drink. “We—uh—you know, we talked in the park and then we went out as friends a few times, but it never seemed quite right to push for a relationship.”  
  
“But they do say the best relationships grow from friendship, don’t they? I’m sure she’s been just waiting for you to ask her out! So my curiosity aside, you must tell me everything about why you like her.”  
  
“Everything?” God, they’ll be here all night.  
  
“Why of course. You talk and I’ll write. She’ll be in your arms before you know it.”  
  
If only that were true.  
  
“Come on, buddy. You already mentioned her eyes. What else do you like about her?”  
  
“Just…Well…Everything. I mean, of course not _everything_, but kind of…yeah.” Ben takes another swig of his beer and frowns. Chris is right about him, isn’t he? He’s terrible at this.  
  
If Chris agrees, he doesn’t say so. In fact, he’s grinning like he’s never been more delighted. “Ben Wyatt! You’re smitten.”  
  
“Smitten? Really?”  
  
“Absolutely. And it’s adorable!”  
  
There’s that healthy dose of regret. Without hesitating, Ben flags down a waiter and orders another beer.   
  
As it turns out, by the time that sixth beer is gone, the guilt-anxiety combination masquerading as fear is no longer an issue. Neither is his self-consciousness or his lingering resentment toward his friend. In fact, the only real problem Ben seems to have now is not slipping up, the chances of which seem to go up exponentially the more he talks. After all, he can’t actually trust Chris with any of this.  
  
But, as it turns out, once he starts to talk about Leslie, it’s kind of hard to stop.  
  
It just feels so damn good to say out loud.  
  
“And she’s just like really funny, you know?” His eyes can’t seem to focus anymore, flitting from Chris to the laptop and back. “The other day she made this pun—“  
  
“You do love puns.”  
  
“I do,” Ben agrees. “I do love puns. And hers are so great. She’s so great. I just—I really want to kiss her.”  
  
Chris types something without taking his eyes off of Ben. He looks so sympathetic, it’s almost hard to remember that he’s the sole reason Ben hasn’t kissed Leslie yet.   
  
Actually, he’s having a hard time remembering much of why he’s mad at Chris at all.  
  
“I had no idea you felt this strongly about someone,” says Chris amicably. He finishes his typing with a flourish, but doesn’t even bother to look down and reread the words. “No wonder you were so resistant to my attempts to set you up.”  
  
“Yeah, well…”  
  
“You should have told me. We could have brought you two together weeks ago.”  
  
_I did tell you_, he thinks, but the accusation is less angry than it is melancholy, words he knows can’t be said and wouldn’t be received with any understanding even if they were. Chris may be keen enough to pick up on his feelings here, away from work, but it’s obvious he’s blind to it when it’s right in front of his eyes. Ben can only assume it’s a case of utterly misplaced faith; of Chris’ assumption that everyone can pick and choose their feelings, just like he does.   
  
He’s not sure whether to pity him or envy him.  
  
“What else?” asks Chris. “Is she pretty?”  
  
“She’s beautiful.”  
  
Chris is near tears again, watery eyes and brilliant smile, and Ben is grateful that he manages to hold himself together. “Okay,” he says, typing something and then swinging the laptop around to face Ben. “Send it.”  
  
“Shouldn’t I read it first?” He glances at the email long enough to see “Dear Belinda,” and shakes his head. Of course it doesn’t matter; it’s not like this email is actually going to Leslie.  
  
“No, no, no. Ben! No second guessing!” He leans across the table, patting Ben’s shoulder and then squeezing it reassuringly. “Trust me.”  
  
Ben nods in what he hopes is a convincing manner, pretends he’s sending the email, and signs out of his account. Then he shuts the laptop and slides it back into his bag, trying to ignore Chris’ open weeping. The sight of his tears is making some of the guilt return.   
  
“Just think—she could be reading it right now.”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“Can’t you picture it, Ben? Her opening her email, clicking on your message, not knowing that everything is about to change…”  
  
“Uh-huh.” Ben slips his phone out of his pocket as Chris continues rambling, trying to sneakily check the messages he knows he missed earlier. There are three new ones from Leslie.  
  
_Are you still out with Chis?_  
  
_Everyone is here._  
  
_You should come hang out with us._  
  
After an hour of talking about Leslie, Ben can think of nothing he’d like more now than to actually see her.  
  
“…and I would be proud to stand up with you at your wedding, Ben.”  
  
Ben raises an eyebrow. That thought spiraled out of control, even for Chris. “I think it’s a little early for that.”  
  
“Someday.”  
  
“Sure. So I just got a message—“  
  
“From Belinda?”  
  
“—from _Leslie_. Everyone is over at the Snakehole. She asked if we wanted to join them.”  
  
Chris’ eyes widen in excitement and Ben smiles.  
  
**_On our way_**.


	3. Chapter 3

  
**Are you still here?**

It takes longer than it should to type four words, but Ben feels tipsier now than he did an hour ago. Something about the crowd here, the insistent pulsating beat of the music and the stale smell of sweat and alcohol makes his head swim. Chris is already bouncing along to the music, ready and willing to be swallowed by the crowd and swept away; Ben just wants to find Leslie. He looks at his message again, carefully checking its coherence, and then he hits send. 

“Should we dance?” asks Chris, apparently not noticing that he’s already doing so. Ben blinks at him and shakes his head. “I don’t think—“ he starts, but Chris grabs his arm and drags him further into the crowd before he can finish his protest.

Chris dances like he’s having a seizure, not necessarily drawing people to him but rather around him. The moment he starts flailing his arms and legs and jerking his head, the crowd parts to give him a wide breadth. And still people can’t seem to help but stare and smile, mostly because it’s obvious that Chris is having fun. Even with six beers pulsing through his veins, Ben is not that uninhibited, but at least it makes it easier to melt back into the crowd and watch.

“Dancing literally makes you feel alive,” Chris shouts at him, spinning around in a circle and waving his arms. “Don’t you think?”

“I tend to feel alive even when I’m not dancing.”

Chris laughs, pointing at him and then moving his arms like he’s doing a backstroke. There’s a sudden wail of pain, and Ben catches sight of Tom holding his hand to his head and darting out of the way. “He hit me!” Tom yells, though Chris doesn’t seem to have noticed. In fact, he just steps forward and grabs Tom by the elbow, pulling him back in and twirling him around in a circle. When he lets go, Tom stumbles backward into Ben, who catches him awkwardly.

“Is he drunk?”

“No,” says Ben, rolling his eyes and righting Tom. The other man is still rubbing his head as though he’s actually been wounded. “He just feels alive.” For a second, he glances back at Chris, now doing what appears to be a demented version of the hokey pokey, and then turns to Tom. “Hey, have you seen Leslie?”

“Yeah, she was here.”

“Was?”

“Actually,” says Tom, ignoring his request for tense clarification, “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I just got here.”

“Yeah, well, I need your help.” Tom grabs him by the elbow and tugs him through the crowd on the dance floor toward the bar. It’s littered with shot glasses and various bottles labeled with numbers, but that’s not what grabs Ben’s attention. “Sit here.”

“Uh, Tom?” Ben continues to stare at the man who lies curled in a fetal position next to the barstool as Tom shoves him into the seat. “Is he okay?”

“Who?” Tom follows Ben’s line of sight and nods. “Oh, my boy Jean-Ralphio? Yeah, he’s fine.”

Ben raises an eyebrow, but Tom has already settled in the seat next to him, apparently unconcerned. “You don’t think we should help him?”

“Dude, I tried, but he’s not going anywhere right now. Don’t worry about it. He always gets like this when he drinks too much.”

From the floor, Jean-Ralphio whimpers. “Will someone cuddle me?”

“Uh…”

“Here. Drink this.”

Ben lifts his eyes from the grown man on the floor to the amber-colored liquid Tom has placed in front of him. It’s a toss-up between which of them he wants to ignore more right now. “What is this?”

“This is the next big thing. The only drink guaranteed to change your life.”

“Is this what he was drinking?”

“Look, I need someone to be my lab monkey and try this. I have to perfect it before we go live next week.”

“Okay.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“No.”

“Ple-e-e-e-ease. It’s just three shots.”

Ben looks down at Jean-Ralphio. “Three shots of what?”

“I can’t say. This is a blind taste test.” Then, as if just noticing that Ben’s still concerned, he adds, “Oh. Don’t worry. He had way more than that.”

In some wild hope that someone is going to intercede, Ben glances around the bar, but Chris has been swallowed by the crowd on the dance floor—many of whom now seem to be cheering for him—and Leslie is still nowhere in sight. Ben looks at his phone, but there aren’t any new messages.

Tom nudges the shot a little closer, and Ben sighs. What difference does it make at this point? “Yeah,” he concedes. “Okay. Just three.”

“Just three, I swear.”

Five shots later, Ben is ready to join Jean-Ralphio on the floor. Tom keeps scribbling notes in a notebook with a dragon on the cover, and then insistently pushes another shot toward Ben—“You can’t just say they all taste the same. Try this one again.”—at which point Ben completely understands why Jean-Ralphio crawled under the bar to get away. 

“They’re good. All good,” he says, pushing the shot away and stumbling off of his barstool. He grabs Tom to regain his balance, but Tom just wrenches his arm away and jots something else in the notebook. For a moment, Ben stands there swaying, and then he remember his legs are there. “I am going over there now,” he says, pointing nowhere in particular.

“Fine. Thanks for being absolutely no help,” snaps Tom. 

As Ben walks away, he can hear him begging Jean-Ralphio to get up, which is stupid because lying down is clearly the better option. In fact, Ben thinks he might do that himself. Just until he can feel his legs again. Or at least control the muscles in his face that won’t seem to stop smiling. He lifts his hands to his face and tries to pull his smile down to a more neutral expression, but it doesn’t seem to work.

“You think I won’t use a human shield?” 

Two hands grab Ben’s arms tightly, jerking him around to face the way he just came. He stumbles over his own feet, nearly falling down, and catches a glimpse of Andy. Awkwardly, he cranes his neck back, and in the process, knocks his head against April’s. Her claw-like grip on his arms tightens. 

“Hey,” he says, trying to blow some of April’s hair out of his face and mostly managing to spit on her. “What are you doing?”

“I think he’s drunk, babe.”

“So?”

Ben laughs, relaxing his body and leaning back into April’s arms. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s better than standing on his own. “What are you doing?” she hisses, moving her hands from his arms to his back. She shoves him and he lurches forward into Andy, who is, unsurprisingly, a more comfortable if sweatier pillow.

“Sorry about that,” says Andy. “April likes to use human shields when we play tag.”

“You’re playing tag?”

“Yeah. Well, I mean, I’m chasing her because she said if I catch her we can make out in public, so it’s _like_ tag. It’s the hunt for foreplay. Or the hunt is foreplay. I can’t remember.”

“Oh god. This is going to end with you having sex on the couch again, isn’t it?”

“Man, that would be awesome! But April wasn’t so happy when you walked in on us the other day.”

“Neither was I.”

“Yeah,” Andy laughs. “You screamed so loud and turned all red. That was hilarious.”

“Right.” Ben leans into Andy a little more, still a bit concerned by the way his legs don’t seem to be working. “Can you help me find a couch?” he asks. “I think I need to lie down.”

“Sure.” 

Andy half-carries, half-drags him across the club, Ben taking in the action around him like one watching life through a fishbowl. He sees Chris snapping a picture of himself with a couple who look half his age and Donna making out with a guy with a lot of muscles; April flits by, scowling at them, probably annoyed that her game was interrupted. Back at the bar, Tom has apparently coaxed Jean-Ralphio into a sitting position.

And there’s still no sign of Leslie.

“Here you go,” says Andy, dumping Ben onto the couch. He slouches down, resting his head against the back of the couch and splaying his legs out in front of him. “Dude, are you gonna be okay?”

“Maybe.” He blinks as Andy sits down next to him. “It’s been a weird night.”

“I know. Did you see those two guys get in a fight over Donna? That was awesome. They made that Jean-Ralphio guy cry.”

“Yeah, no. I missed it.”

“Too bad. It was hilarious.”

Ben nods, frowning as April walks past and makes a threatening gesture, but Andy just laughs. 

“Oh hey, did you find Leslie?” he asks, as if suddenly remembering something he forgot. He gives April a small wave, apparently unconcerned that she obviously wants to continue their game, and she rolls her eyes and stalks toward the bar. “She was looking for you.”

“Is she still here?”

Andy shrugs. “Probably. How’s that going anyway?”

“Not great.” Reflexively, Ben reaches for his cell phone, but the only message is from April, telling him to go away. “Chris is trying to set us up without knowing he’s setting us up and I went along with it and it’ll probably end up blowing up in my face because everything always does, you know?”

“I have no idea.”

Ben’s not sure he has any idea at this point either. Without thinking, he opens his email, pulling up the draft Chris wrote earlier and waving his other hand in its general direction. “I should probably read it, huh?”

“You should just tell Leslie,” says Andy. Absurdly, it sounds like practical advice. He must be drunker than he realized. “Just tell her how you feel.”

“Sure,” he agrees, laughing a little. 

“Yeah. Practice on me,” Andy insists. “Pretend I’m Leslie.”

“Not possible,” Ben mutters. What had Chris said earlier? He made commonplace observations? Right now he can’t even come up with those. Dimly, he looks down at the email, the words going in and out of focus as he stares. Curiosity is getting the better of him, and mindlessly, he starts to read aloud, the words slurring together as he speaks. “’I know this might come as a surprise, but it’s important to be honest and tell people how you feel. You’ve become one of my dearest friends, and I can’t imagine my life without you. I know every day would be a little less special, filled with less humor, joy and beauty, if you weren’t there. So I can’t let another day pass without telling you the truth. I’m crazy about you. I know this could change everything between us, and I know that the timing probably isn’t perfect, but I had to tell you. Because I think if we just take a chance, this could be something great.’”

“Dude.” Andy holds out a hand, and belatedly, Ben gives him a weak high five. “That’s perfect. Say that.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy.”

“Yeah it is. You think too much. You need to be more like me and stop using your brain.”

Ben nods, more to appease Andy than anything, and tucks his phone back into his pocket. Across the bar, April is still glaring daggers at them, and Andy finally seems to notice. He stands, and immediately Ben takes advantage of the empty space to lie down, purposefully ignoring the way the seat is slick with sweat where his roommate was sitting. He lifts a hand to his forehead and shuts his eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Fine.”

“Okay. I’ll let you know if I find Leslie.”

Ben manages a thumbs up, mostly grateful when he hears Andy bound away. It’s the closest to quiet solitude that he’s going to get in a crowded, noisy nightclub, and right now it’s the one thing he wants more than anything. Even with his eyes shut, he still feels dizzy, and he already knows he’s going to regret this in the morning.

All of this, probably. Even the non-alcohol related parts of the night.

He loses track of time then. Everything seems to move around him at an interminable pace, but he’d wager that in reality almost no time passes. He keeps his eyes shut, listening to the people around him, ignoring the couple who collapse next to him on the couch to make out, tapping his foot in time to the music and imagining Leslie in a dance-off with Chris. He thinks he’d like to see that. And all the while, like a soundtrack to his thoughts, Chris’ email keeps flitting through his mind, oddly perfect words that he can’t say.

So really it’s impossible to say whether it’s a matter of minutes or hours that he lies there before Leslie finds him, her foot lightly tapping against his ankle as she greets him. “You came.”

Ben lifts his arm away from his face and squints at her. “Leslie?”

“Yeah.” She offers him her hand and he takes it, allowing her to help him back to a sitting position. Immediately, the room begins to spin. “I think I drank too much,” he observes.

Leslie grins. “Looks like it.” She still holding his hand, he notices, but when he looks up at her, there’s no indication that she realizes she’s doing it. “Come on,” she says. “It’s time to get off the couch.”

“No.”

“Yeah.” She tugs, hard, but he just sinks back, trying to melt into the seat. “Come on. You’ll feel better.”

“Or I’ll puke.”

Leslie wrinkles her nose, still pulling on his hand. This time, he’s distracted enough to come willingly, lifting his own hand to his nose and petting it thoughtfully. “I can’t feel my nose,” he says as Leslie wraps an arm around him. His own arm snakes around her shoulders, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t need the support.

“That’s okay,” says Leslie. “You don’t need your nose to walk.”

“Where are we going?”

“Home.”

“No, no, no.” He stops, but Leslie’s arm remains around his waist, the pressure of her fingers in his side urging him to move. “You just got here.”

“I’ve been here for hours.”

“Yeah. But you just got _here_.” He tries to look down at her, but pressed against his side, he can only see her profile. Her hair is sloppily tied back, the gleam of sweat along her hairline just scarcely visible in the dim lighting, but it’s the patch of skin beneath her ear that catches his eye. He wonders if she’d like it if he kissed her there; what it would feel like to press his lips right against that spot; if she’d moan or hum or push him away because she’s ticklish there. Maybe, he thinks, she’d want him to linger. To lavish that spot with his tongue before he pressed his lips all along her neck, her collarbone, all the way down to the gap in her shirt that reveals the swell of her breasts. If he had the chance, he’d brush his tongue against her skin there, kiss her again and again, until finally he’d have to break away to pull her shirt over her head.

He bumps into someone and slowly drags his eyes away from her chest. When did they start walking again? 

“Eyes on the road,” he mutters, laughing, but it’s okay because Leslie’s grip just tightens, holding him closer and steadying him at the same time. And it feels good—it feels natural—to be with her like this, even if she’s only helping him because he’s drunk and his legs don’t work right.

It’s cool once they get outside, an immediate respite from the hot, staid air in the club, and he becomes uncomfortably aware that Leslie feels like pure heat against him wherever they touch. Still, by the time they reach her car and she releases him, it feels more like a loss than relief.

“I was looking for you,” he says. His eyes can’t stay still, flitting over her form in a haphazard way so he can’t focus on more than a tiny piece of her at a time. “Tonight. I thought you’d left.”

“I did. I had to take Ann home, but then I came back. Good thing, too, or you’d be spending the night on that couch.”

“It was pretty comfy.”

“I bet.”

He smiles, ducking his head for a second and staring at her ankle. It feels dream-like, her sudden appearance, dragging him out of the bar instead of letting Chris take him home, and knowing it’s actually happening is reassuring. “I’m glad,” he says, eyes moving back up her body and settling on her lips. “I’m glad you came back.” 

The words come out the way he feels, and not the way he intends, soft and wanting and too full of the things they aren’t acknowledging. He thinks she falters for a moment, hands a little shakier as they dig through her purse, but steadfast in her pretended ignorance. He wishes…

Well, he wishes a lot of things.

As he stands there, watching Leslie as she searches for her keys and ignores him, he can feel that thought, all of those unanswered wishes, spreading like poison through his veins. It moves throughout his body, extending out to the tips of his fingers and all the way down to his toes until even the parts of him dulled by alcohol or time feel suddenly alive and aware. And it’s not just Leslie, not just months of unfulfilled desire; it’s every feeling he’s ever suppressed and every dream he’s given up on and every time he’s said no when he wanted to say yes. 

Chris is right, he thinks dumbly, a thought that feels foreign and not entirely welcome. He gets in the way of his own happiness; he stands back when he wants to push forward, and for what? For the rules? For Chris?

Chris said himself that he wanted him to be happy.

God, even Andy implied that he’s being an idiot. 

“Leslie.” Her name is on his lips before he means for it to be, propelled by alcohol and the terrifying Andy-Chris hybrid in his mind, and, maybe more than anything, by his own needs. He can’t seem to focus on anything else right now but how he feels, a selfish, dangerous game that he shouldn’t be playing. “Les?”

“Hmm?” She glances up casually, but seeing him, the look on her face changes, her stubbornly set happiness fading to some indefinable combination of apprehension and anticipation. It’s the kind of look that reminds him that he could potentially be free-falling toward solid ground without a parachute. The kind of look that steals his breath and his thoughts. The kind of look that makes him want to do something stupid.

And suddenly he finds that the only words he has left are not his own.

“I’m crazy about you,” he blurts out, and the way her eyes widen make him think he misread her, that maybe she didn’t realize what he was going to say. But now that he’s started, he can’t stop. “I am,” he says, nodding. Chris’ words seem to jumble in his mind, coming out the moment he remembers them and feeling like his own. “I know this could change everything between us, and I know that the timing probably isn’t perfect, but I had to tell you. Because I can’t imagine my life without you anymore. And—And because I think if we just take a chance, this could be something great.”

Leslie’s face softens, the look in her eyes loosening the tight knot of fear in his stomach, and when she steps toward him, he can feel his hands shaking. But whatever he was expecting, the hope is immediately dashed as she simply reaches for the handle of the door and opens it. His stomach plummets, his vision swimming, and when Leslie takes his hand and squeezes it, he can’t breathe. “We can’t do this now,” she says quietly. The words hang between them, intimate in a way that hurts almost more than anything else. “You’re drunk.”

“That doesn’t make it less true.”

Leslie sighs, and for a brief moment, she leans into him and lets her forehead rest lightly against his chest. His heart stutters, but by the time he moves to embrace her, she’s already pulled away. “We need to talk about this. We do. But not right now. Not like this. Ben.” She sighs, her fingers toying with his, and gives him a weak smile. “This is too important.”   
She steps back before he can respond, giving him space to climb into her car, but for a moment he wants to protest. To insist they do this now and finally put to rest the months of tension between them. To reassure her that this isn’t the alcohol talking or his frustration or even Chris. 

It’s just the right thing to say in exactly the wrong moment. 

But Leslie stands there, not breaking eye contact, smiling a little uncertainly and asking him to have faith in her, and despite how much he wants to, he can’t say no.

Instead he gets in the car, closing his eyes and blocking out the world.

Even her.


	4. Chapter 4

  
He finds Leslie in the kitchen, back to him, cell phone pressed to her ear. Even from here, he can see the tension in her shoulders, and he imagines her face, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed—the same irritated look she used to give him on a daily basis. Unfairly, he used to think.

This morning, it feels like she has every right in the world to be mad at him.

"He didn't say anything,” Leslie says into the phone. She sounds like she’s trying to whisper, and he realizes too late that he’s eavesdropping on a conversation she doesn’t want him to hear. “What if he doesn't remember, Ann? Am I supposed to pretend it didn't happen?"

Does she want to pretend? His stomach rolls at the thought, and he leans against the door frame for support. This is definitely a conversation he'd prefer to have when he's not hungover.

It's also one he wishes he hadn't initiated when he was drunk.

"I don't know!" shouts Leslie, and Ben winces. Tentatively, he raises his hand and raps his knuckles against the door frame to get her attention, and she whips around to face him. For a second, her eyes widen, and then she holds up a finger and turns back around, as if not facing him will afford her more privacy. "I have to go, Ann," she says quietly. "Yeah. I'll call you later. Bye.

“That was Ann," she informs him as she turns and leans against the kitchen counter; despite her body language, it's too labored an attempt to seem casual. "You know, Ann Perkins, my best friend in the universe."

"Yeah, I know Ann." 

"Right."

Leslie bites her lip, her eyes questioning him as they dart around his face, and he can feel the tension between them filling the room. It’s atypical of them, built from her uncertainty and confusion and his regret and anxiety, and Ben has no idea how to fix it. Right now the five feet between them might as well be a mile.

It's one of the few truly awkward silences he's known with Leslie. The fingers of her right hand fidget against the counter, and he has to resist the urge to indulge any nervous ticks of his own. Belatedly, he realizes he has no idea how to begin this conversation, which might have been a better thing to figure out before walking into her kitchen. But considering what happened and the fact that she has no idea if he even remembers, standing here staring at her probably isn't the right course of action.

"How are you feeling?" she blurts out, her words rushed in that feverish way she gets sometimes when she's nervous or excited. "Do you want something to eat? I haven't been to the store in awhile, but I still have some NutriYum bars that Ann didn't confiscate. And marshmallows. I have a lot of marshmallows. We could probably make s'mores if you want."

Good lord. And he thought Andy and April were bad at grocery shopping. "It's okay," he says, forcing himself to stand up without the aid of the door frame. "I'm not sure food is the best choice right now anyway." At least not food whose primary ingredient is sugar.

"Okay. Well—"

"We should probably talk, right?" The words come out abruptly, a showing of courage he doesn't exactly feel, particularly when Leslie flinches. "About last night?"

"Probably."

"Look, Leslie…" He steps toward her and then stops, jamming his hands into his pockets. "I'm sorry. I acted like a jerk, and I—" He sighs. "I'm just really sorry."

"Are you?"

"Yeah, I am. I shouldn't have…"

He trails off as she stares at him, apprehension creasing her brow. A blanket apology lies on the tip of his tongue, ready to write off the entire night as a drunken mistake. An easy fix for a problem he’s complicated with the truth. It would be the right thing to do for both their sakes.

But he can't help but wonder if Leslie is as tired as he is of doing the right thing.

"I shouldn't have done it like that," he finishes quietly, and across the room, Leslie visibly exhales. "I—I've been thinking about it for so long now. How I would tell you. And that wasn't even close—I didn't even use my own words."

"What?"

"It's a long story. Chris…" He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. The important thing is that I meant it. I meant every single word. And I shouldn't have done it like that, but…I'm glad you know."

"Oh god." Leslie paces toward him, stops abruptly, and then circles around her kitchen back to where she started. She glances at him, as if to reaffirm that he's still there, and shakes her head. "This is not good."

"I know."

"We could get into trouble. We could get fired. We could ruin our reputations and end up bereft of everything we ever worked for. Alone. Destitute. Exiled."

"Exiled?"

"Yes, Ben! Exiled! Banished! Run out of town!"

"Okay,” he cuts in, stopping her before she guts him completely. It’s not like he didn’t expect the rejection on some level. You know, deep down. Where all of his insecurities lurk. “I get it. I do, Leslie." He swallows, hard, already dreading his next words. "We don't have to take the risk. If you just want to remain friends I—I understand."

"Of course I don't want that!" Her pacing, which resumed as she began to lament the risks of a relationship, abruptly halts. "But I don't want to lose everything either. And I really don't want to keep pretending that I don't want to make out with your face."

Wait. What? "You do?"

"Yes."

"That's…" That's beyond words, actually. Possibly beyond basic human comprehension. So much so that Ben can't seem to do more than grin rather stupidly.

“Oh god,” Leslie groans, dropping her face to her hands. After a second, she peeks out at him from between her fingers and shakes her head.

"Screw it," she mutters, and before Ben can even register the words, she launches toward him, hands skating along the back of his neck as she pulls him down into a kiss.

Even though she catches him off-guard, he responds instinctively to her, one hand moving to cup her cheek, his other arm wending around her waist to pull her closer. It’s every kiss they’ve never had: sweet yet fervent, tentative yet passionate, everything and nothing he’s imagined, and it’s perfect.

“Sorry,” breathes Leslie. She’s leaning into him, pressing him back into the door frame, her eyes darkened as they flit across his face. She kisses him again, briefly, and then sighs. “I had to do that.”

“Had to, huh?” He’s smirking, and she slaps his shoulder lightly.

“Yeah, had to. But it’s your fault. You and your stupid mouth.”

He puts his stupid mouth to good use then, fingers sneaking under the hem of Leslie’s shirt as she parts her lips against his. It is his fault, he thinks. His confession. His intent. His refusal to pretend he’s not crazy about her.

And Chris’ words.

The irony isn’t lost on Ben. Chris Traeger finally set him up with the woman of his dreams, and it will break his heart if he ever finds out. And that’s Ben’s fault too.

“Come on,” says Leslie, fingers gripping his shirt and pulling him backwards. He stumbles, still trying to kiss her as they move, and she laughs. “I want to show you my bedroom.”

He’s never been happier to take the blame.


End file.
